“How did you find out I was in the hospital?” Maggie asked when she and Greg were alone. She spread out the suits she had carefully packed days ago, pleased with their appearance despite two trips halfway across the country.

“Actually, I didn’t know until I arrived at the sheriff’s department earlier this morning. Some bimbo in a leather skirt told me about it.”

“She’s not a bimbo.” Maggie couldn’t believe she was defending Lucy Burton.

“This just reiterates my point, Maggie.”

“Your point?”

“That this job is much too dangerous.”

She dug through the overnight case he’d brought her, keeping her back to him and vowing to ignore the mounting anger. She concentrated on how good it felt to have her own things back. Perhaps it was ridiculous, but fingering her own underwear gave her an odd sense of control and security.

“Why won’t you just admit it?” Greg insisted.

“Admit what?”

“That this job is too dangerous.”

“For who, Greg? You? Because I don’t have a problem with it. I’ve always known there would be risks.”

She stayed calm, glanced over her shoulder at him. He was pacing, hands on his hips as if waiting for a verdict. “When I asked you to pick up my bags from the airport, I didn’t mean for you to deliver them.” She tried a smile, but he looked determined not to let her off so easily.

“Next year I’ll make partner. We’re on our way, Maggie.”

“On our way to what?” She pulled out a matching bra and panties.

“You shouldn’t have to do all this dangerous fieldwork. For God’s sake, Maggie, you’ve got eight stinking years with the Bureau. You finally have the clout to be…I don’t know, a supervisor, an instructor…something, anything else.”

“I enjoy what I do, Greg.” She started to pull off the hideous gown, hesitated, then glanced over her shoulder. Greg threw his hands in the air and rolled his eyes.

“What? You want me to leave?” His voice was filled with sarcasm, a hint of anger. “Yes, maybe I should leave so you can invite your cowboy back.”

“He’s not my cowboy.” Maggie felt the anger color her cheeks.

“Is that why you haven’t returned my calls? Is there something going on with you and Sheriff Hardbody?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Greg.” She yanked off the gown and struggled into the panties. It hurt to bend, to lift her arms. She was grateful a bandage covered the unsightly stitches.

“Oh my God, Maggie.”

She spun around to find him staring at her wounded shoulder, a grimace contorting his handsome features. She couldn’t help wondering whether it was disgust or concern. His eyes examined the rest of her body, finally resting on the scar below her breasts. Suddenly, she felt exposed and embarrassed, neither of which made sense. He was her husband, after all. Yet, she grabbed the gown and pressed it to her breasts.

“Not all of those are from last night,” he said, the anger more prevalent than the concern. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you notice?”

“So this is my fault?” Again, the hands in the air. It was a gesture she recognized from when he practiced his summations. Perhaps it worked with jurors. To her, it was worthless melodrama, a simple technique to draw attention to himself. How dare he make her scars about him.

“It has nothing to do with you.”

“You’re my wife. Your job leaves your body carved up. Why shouldn’t I be concerned?” His fair complexion turned crimson with anger, large raspberry splotches that looked like a rash.

“You’re not concerned. You’re angry because I didn’t tell you.”

“Damn right I’m angry. Why didn’t you tell me?”

She threw the gown aside, giving him a good look at the scar.

“This is from over a month ago, Greg,” she said, tracing the scar that Stucky had left. “Most husbands would have noticed. But we don’t even have sex anymore, so how could you notice? You haven’t even noticed that I don’t sleep next to you. That I spend most nights pacing. You don’t care about me, Greg.”

“This is ridiculous. How can you say I don’t care about you? That’s exactly why I want you to leave the Bureau.”

“If you really cared, you’d understand how important my job is to me. No, you’re more concerned about how I make you look. That’s why you don’t want me in the field. You want to be able to tell your friends and associates that I have some big FBI title, a huge office, a secretary to put you on hold. You want me to be able to wear sexy black cocktail dresses to your fancy attorney parties so you can show me off, and my hideous scars don’t fit into that scenario. Well, this is me, Greg,” she said with her hands on her hips, trying to ignore the chill on her naked body. “This is who I am. Maybe I just don’t fit into your country-club lifestyle anymore.”

He shook his head at her, like a father impatient with his errant child. She grabbed the crumpled gown again and smashed it against her breasts, suddenly feeling vulnerable, having exposed much more than her nakedness.

“Thank you for bringing my things,” she said quietly, calmly. “Now, I want you to leave.”

“Fine.” He swung his arms into his trench coat. “Why don’t we get together for lunch after you’ve cooled off.”

“No, I want you to go back home.”

He stared at her, his gray eyes going cold, his pursed lips stifling the angry words. She waited for his next onslaught, but he turned on his expensive, leather heels and stomped out.

Maggie collapsed onto the bed, the pain in her side only a minor contributor to her exhaustion. She barely heard the tap on the door but braced herself for the rest of Greg’s fury. Instead, Nick came in, took one look at her and spun around.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you weren’t dressed.”

She glanced down, only now realizing she just wore underpants and the thin gown carelessly pressed across her breasts, hardly covering anything. She looked up at him, checking to make sure his back was to her before she grabbed the bra and wrestled into it. The stabs in her side slowed her down.

“Actually, I should be the one to apologize,” she said, adopting Greg’s sarcasm. “It seems my scarred body repulses men.”

She snatched a blouse from the pile and thrust her arms into it, then realized it was inside out. She whipped it off and tried again.

Nick glanced over his shoulder, but snapped back to his same position. “Jesus, Maggie, you should know by now that I’m the wrong one to say that to. I’ve been trying for days now to find one little thing about you that doesn’t turn me on.”

She heard the smile in his voice. Her fingers stopped at the buttons, a slight tremor making it difficult to continue as the heat crawled down her body. She stared at the back of him and wondered how in the world Nick Morrelli could make her feel so sensuous, so alive without even looking at her.

“Anyway, I didn’t mean to barge in on you,” he said, “but there’s a slight problem with bringing in Father Keller for questioning.”

“I know, I know. We don’t have enough evidence.”

“No, that’s not it.” Another glance to see if it was safe. Maggie had her trousers halfway up, but he turned again to the door. She smiled at his caution. After all, he had already seen her in much less. She remembered the football jersey and his soft, comfortable robe.

“If it’s not evidence, what’s the problem?” she asked.

“I just called the rectory and talked to the cook. Father Keller is gone and so is Ray Howard.”